A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents (6 page)

“Hello?”

“Abigail?” I say, knowing full well who it is.

“It took you long enough to call me back.”

“I was in the middle of a 5K when you called,” I say, wanting it to not sound so ridiculous. At least I didn’t call it a fun
run.

“Are you on your way?” Abigail presses.

“I have to stop by the office first.”

“No rush.”

“I have to pick up a few files, leave a note for my assistant… that kind of thing.”

“It’s just a stroke. Take your time,” Abigail sighs.

“Wow, this has been such a pleasure. It makes me wonder why I haven’t spoken to you in—”

“Five years.”

“I’d better get going, then. Wouldn’t want to be any later,” I say, fidgeting with my keys.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want that.”

“Do you want to tar and feather me now or can you wait until I get up there?”

“I’ll wait until you get up here.” I’m caught off guard.

“Oh… okay. Tell Huston I’m on my way?” I ask, not able to face him quite yet.

“Yeah, okay. Drive safe. I wouldn’t want you getting injured before I get my hands on you,” Abigail says. Is that humor?

“Okay… see you when I see you,” I say.

“See you when I see you,” Abigail says, one second after me.

We’re quiet. Counting to ten. I’m biting my tongue.

“You owe me a Coke,” Abigail finally says.

Damn, that’s two Cokes. I hate losing, whatever the circumstances. I beep the phone off and set it back into its cradle. I
grab my purse and turn the kitchen light off.

I’ll call Tim once I get to the office. I’m going to need the next… wait… how long
am
I going to be gone? Do I ask someone to pick up the mail for me? I’ve got a couple of days’ leeway because of the holiday.
I’m literally pacing back and forth, about to walk out, then walking back in, about to walk out and then back in. I hold my
car keys in one hand and a commuter mug of Earl Grey tea in the other.

I shut and lock the door behind me and walk through the courtyard, breathing in the smell of lavender and fresh air as the
sky thinks about raining again. I open the gate and walk two houses down, backpack still on, purse hitched at my shoulder,
keys held tightly in my hand. I walk up the impeccable pathway, past color-coded perennials and little crafty signs welcoming
me, letting me know that what happens at Grandma’s stays at Grandma’s, and that I should, above all, have a happy new year.
I approach the red glossy door and hope these people will recognize me from the insignificant waves I begrudgingly throw their
way each morning. I knock on the door. And wait. The door whips open.

“Hahahahahahaha!” A little boy maniacally laughs. I take a step back.

“Um… I… uh…” I stutter.

“Owen, dear. Owen? Honey, who is it?” a voice calls from the depths of the house. The little boy gives me the once-over—taking
my measure. He’s unimpressed.

“Some blonde lady selling coffee,” Owen yells. I look at the commuter mug in my hand. Jesus.

“Blonde lady selling coffee? Well, Owen, dear, I’ve nev—” The gray-haired woman walks down the long hallway, trying to work
out the ridiculous description. She stops once she sees me.

“Hi,” I manage.

“Oh, selling coffee! Oh—Owen, this is our neighbor. Grace Hawkes, right?” the gray-haired woman asks. I’m stunned she knows
my name.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

“Ma’am nothing. I’m Louise. Won’t you come in?” She opens the door as Owen skips down the long hallway.

“Oh, no thank you… Louise. I wanted to ask you a favor. I know I don’t know you very well, I’m not a big… I’m not a big waver,”
I say, holding my non-waving hand up as proof.

“Oh, don’t be silly. What can I help you with?” Louise asks.

“Grammy!!!!! They’re showing how they build the floats!!! They’re showing how they build the floats!!!” Owen screams from
the back of the house.

“We’re going to the Rose Parade—it’s his first time. He’s quite excited. What can I do for you, dear?” Louise asks.

“I have to go out of town and I really don’t know for how long. My dad has had a stroke—I don’t really know him that well,
so it’s not like… He left when I was thirteen. Well, he was asked to leave. He had a thing for other women… a lot of other women.
He just never looked back, though. You can not be a good husband, but why does that mean you have to be a bad dad? I don’t
know… so now I have to head up to Ojai and… well, see how he’s doing and see my family and I haven’t seen them for around five
years, you know? Ever since my mom died… It’s been five years since she died and I kind of flipped out and just walked away… ran
away, really. From everyone. Like he did. I didn’t put that together until this morning. Weird, huh? Yeah… I had this great
guy, too. Pitch-black eyes and he was just this… Anyway, I have a new boyfriend now. He’s kind of a monkeyhander—”

Louise cuts in, “Monkey what?”

“A monkeyh—ugh, never mind. It’s too hard to explain. So… now… I’m uh… I’m driving right up there and I just wanted to know
if you could pick up my mail… or something,” I finish, my hands wound around the backpack straps.

Louise looks stunned.

“Grammy, the floats!!!!” Owen’s voice wafts down the hallway.

“So your mail?” Louise concludes.

“Yes,” I answer.

“I can do that,” Louise warily says.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I say, taking her hand and shaking it.

“Take care, now,” Louise says, taking her hand back.

“I will. I will. Thank you,” I say, breathing easier. Louise walks back into her house. I turn to walk back down the pathway.

I hear the door slam behind me.

And then there’s no looking back.

“Ray Hawkes. He’s in the ICU.” I put my hands on the elementary-school-style lectern in the minuscule lobby of St. Joseph’s
Hospital. Our family always goes to the Huntington Hospital in Pasadena, otherwise known as the Caesars Palace of hospitals.
If the Huntington Hospital is Caesars Palace, then St. Joseph’s is the 7-Eleven with a couple of slot machines just across
the Nevada state line.

Tucked away in the rolling countryside northeast of Los Angeles, dotted with oak trees and babbling brooks, Ojai is downright
idyllic. An ironic setting for such a reunion. I remember being shocked to find out it was spelled Ojai, thinking, it was
spelled: Oh, hi. Like a casual greeting. Oh, hi. Certainly not its beautiful Chumash Indian meaning: “valley of the moon.”

Two candy stripers stand behind the lectern.

“Ray Hawkes?” I repeat again. One candy striper picks up a plastic clipboard and flips through the pages.

“He’s in the ICU,” the other candy striper says. I breathe deeply and stare at the two girls, hoping they’ll figure out from
my silence—and the fact that I just
said
that—that they’re not really helping. I’m just asking for directions to the ICU. I stare. And wait. They stare back. I finally
have to give up and admit I can’t win this staring contest. They’re probably both thinking about the color yellow right now.

“And where might that be?” I ask.

“Fourth floor. Take the elevator, make a right, two quick lefts and then another right,” one of the candy stripers instructs.
I do the math in my head. Have they just told me to go on a wild-goose chase by directing me to walk in a perfect circle?
I catch myself doing some odd half-hokey-pokey-like movement as I try to work out the whole right, left, left, right thing.
I hitch my purse tightly on my shoulder and head for the elevator, repeating right, left, left, right… right, left, left, right…

As I walk toward the elevator, it finally dawns on me where I am. The chaos of the morning has slowed down and I find myself
here—zombielike in the lobby of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Ojai, California. What’s waiting for me at the other end of these
rights and lefts?

A harried blonde lady and a young boy stand next to the elevator. She’s rolling a child-sized piece of luggage behind her.
They both look at the elevator button, then at me, then back at the elevator button. It’s that awkward moment where you ask
yourself, has the other person actually pushed the call button—or are we all just standing here waiting for nothing? There’s
no light on the button indicating that it’s been pushed. Is she running through the possibilities? If she walks up and presses
it and the light is broken—then she’s insinuating that I’m the type of person who stands in front of elevators willing them
to open with my mind. The little boy jabs the button with a whirlwind of energy. He can’t help himself.

“Alec, I’m sure the lady—” The elevator door dings open. They seem startled and no longer make eye contact with me as they
step into the elevator. The woman holds her arm in front of the elevator door, holding it open for me.

“Oh, yeah—sorry. Sorry,” I say, stepping into the elevator.

“Which floor? Alec likes to push the buttons,” the woman says, eyeing my outstretched arm.

“Four, please. Thanks,” I say, bringing my arm back down to my side. The woman and boy step to the far side of the elevator.
Away from me. I’m relieved when I feel the buzz of my BlackBerry saying that I’ve got a message. It’s from Tim.

Good luck today. Call when you get a chance
.

The door dings open and they rush out. My stomach lurches as the elevator climbs.

Thanks. I’ll call when I get to the B&B
, I type. I booked a room at a little bed-and-breakfast I found on the Internet when I stopped by the office to pick up some
files.

The elevator dings open on the fourth floor. I hit send and pocket my BlackBerry.

I’m immediately hit with that unmistakable hospital smell. My entire body convulses. I can’t do this. I need a bathroom. Not
again, Jesus—not again. I’m unable to cry, but apparently I’ve now started vomiting like a kitten with a hairball every time
an emotional situation arises. Good to know.

I close and lock the door to the bathroom. Why are all hospital bathrooms so depressing? I’m forced to stop taking in my surroundings
so I can retch into the toilet. I try to keep my hands behind my back while holding my breath. My purse slides down my arm
and touches the floor—I’ll have to burn that later. I quickly grab some paper towels and put them just under my hands.

The smell of the hospital permeates the bathroom. Flashing, shooting images of long hallways and a doctor walking toward me.
Wringing her hands, approaching families—hopeful families. Families that are about to be broken.

“Evelyn Hawkes, please… she would have been brought in about fifteen minutes ago?” I ask, breathless.

“Hawkes?” the woman behind the bulletproof glass asks.

“Yes, Hawkes, with an
e
. Evelyn Hawkes? Car accident,” I say, looking around the waiting room for the rest of my family.

“Come on through,” the woman says, buzzing the large double doors open.

I walk through and am hit with that smell: sickness they try to cover up with cleaning products. Bustling nurses and doctors
zip from one room to another, gurneys line the halls, and everyone not in scrubs seems confused… lost somehow. We shouldn’t
be here. No one should be here.

“Grace!?” Leo calls from the far end of the long hallway. He slips and slides down in blue paper booties, no doubt provided
by the hospital, because I’m sure Leo showed up barefoot. I catch his full weight and prop him back up.

“Hey… hey… it’s going to be fine. It was just a car. She was in that giant flower truck, Leo. She’s going to be—” I soothe,
rocking him back and forth.

“She’s their floral designer, why was she even driving that thing?” Leo asks, before I can finish my speech. I’m sure she
is going to be rolled out in a little wheelchair with a sling around her arm and a “How do you like that?” look on her face
any minute.

“Maybe someone didn’t come in to work. She’ll tell us when we’re allowed to see her,” I answer, looking down the long hallway.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Leo sighs.

“Hey,” Abigail says, walking down the long hallway with Manny and Evie: the namesake. At just ten, she’s barely even allowed
to be back here. The detached preteen is doing her best to not look scared. Manny is wearing a company polo tucked into dress
slacks. Abigail’s loafers squeak on the hospital’s clean floor as she walks toward us. I can see Abigail caressing Evie’s
hand as she gets closer. Evie’s eyes dart from one room to another. She holds on to Abigail’s hand tightly.

“They haven’t come out yet,” Leo says, his voice tight. I am calm.

“Okay… okay… we’re all here. Huston is out front filling out some paperwork. It was just a car and she was in that giant flower
truck,” Abigail asserts, playfully shaking Evie’s hand around. Evie’s face remains creased with worry.

“Why was she even driving that thing?” Leo asks again.

“Did anyone talk to her yet?” I ask, hopeful.

“I talked to her this morning,” Abigail says. We all nod. We’ve all talked to her this morning. We all talk every morning.
We all talk every day.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Huston asks, emerging through the double doors. Huston’s frame takes up the long, sterile hallway.
He immediately walks over to me.

“No, nothing,” I answer, Leo still curled into every nook and cranny.

“She was in that giant flower truck. She’s gonna be fine,” Leo adds. I smile again. This is nothing.

“The woman at the front desk didn’t say anything?” Abigail asks. Evie is biting her fingernails, plunging her entire hand
into her mouth. Deeper and deeper in. Manny gently pulls Evie’s hand out of her mouth and gives it a tender kiss. Evie smiles,
embarrassed. Manny holds her hand in his.

“She was in that giant flower truck,” Huston says.

“That’s what I said,” I say, smiling. Huston averts his eyes and I can see his jaw clenching… over and over. I pull Leo close.

“Why was she even driving that thing?” Leo’s voice is growing panicked.

“She was in that giant flower truck,” Huston says again, still nodding.

A doctor turns the corner… walking down that long hallway. She’s wringing her hands.